


Quiet Things

by thegirlwiththemouseyhair



Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon, Sappy, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-13 01:45:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3363194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlwiththemouseyhair/pseuds/thegirlwiththemouseyhair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Another piece of happy fluff (relative fluff, though hopefully not too beyond the bounds of credulity for this ship and fandom) in honour of Valentine's Day.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Quiet Things

**Author's Note:**

> Another piece of happy fluff (relative fluff, though hopefully not too beyond the bounds of credulity for this ship and fandom) in honour of Valentine's Day.

Curt had certainly brought some much-needed excitement to Arthur’s life, of a kind he hadn’t felt since he was a teenager and missed more than he’d realized. He was surprised at how fast he eased, or leapt, into Curt’s world – of passion, sex on the couch or standing against the wall by the front door of his flat, and late nights, raw sound and vivid colours at concerts, and of _movement_ on the subway and through the city’s bars, clubs, and twenty-four hour diners or hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurants. It was worth all the yawning, useless mornings at work, being part of Curt’s life and feeling alive himselffor the first time in years. More than worth it.

(It was also worth the awkwardness when they ran into tabloid reporters who either didn’t look twice at Arthur, or infuriated Curt by asking him if he was still bisexual after so many years. Running into fans was almost as bad, though nothing worried Arthur quite like those nights when he came home from work to find Curt gone without him, and beyond his influence, if he had ever had any influence over Curt at all.)

But the quiet times they spent together, the things no one would expect of _Curt Wild_ (but that no one else would know about) were worth a hell of a lot, too. Curt had an unexpected quiet streak in him. Sometimes Arthur could get him talking when he was in one of those subdued moods. He was wry in his assessments of politics, which were neithersugar-coated nor optimistic, and self-deprecating when he spoke about himself and his own past.

More often, though, he’d just grunt in answer to Arthur’s questions, smoke three or four cigarettes, then reach for his guitar and pour whatever was on his mind into a song. When he was done he’d reappear, either smirking if it had gone well or worrying at his bottom lip if it hadn’t come together right. Either way he’d drag Arthur away from whatever work he was doing, or pretending to do, while waiting for Curt.

“Arthur,” he’d say, tapping his foot and trying – failing – to contain a grin or a pout.

Occasionally Arthur would let him wait, just a little longer, just to see if he could.

“Arthur. _Arthur_ , come on. I need you to listen to something…”

He was boyish and lively in teasing Arthur, too. His faked Manchester accent was surprisingly decent, though Arthur wasn’t about to admit that. He would, however, concede that the glasses he used for reading were awful, as Curt never failed to remind him: he’d bought them because he needed them and they were inexpensive more than anything else.

“Yeah,” Curt said the first time he broached the subject. He had sneaked up on Arthur, lulled him with a gentle kiss while he read, then snapped the glasses off his face. “It _shows._ They’re fucking terrible, even on someone as hot as you.”

Arthur had to laugh at that, just as he had to laugh at Curt’s sustained teasing about the cat a co-worker had fobbed off on him three months before they started dating or whatever it was they were doing. _A man taking so much crap from a little cat…_ But when Arthur’s lease ended and they took a new flat together, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, only for the cat to spend nearly two weeks hiding in a dresser drawer in protest at being moved again, Curt was just as concerned as Arthur. Maybe he was even more concerned, in his way: Arthur caught him at the dresser several times, checking that she was still alive in there.

“You don’t have to do that,” Arthur said, coming into the bedroom to see Curt leaning over the dresser.   
“Really.”

Curt straightened, quickly.

“It’s fine,” he said. Then he shrugged. “I mean, she’s yours.”

Arthur grinned. “Thanks.”

They came together in a kiss then, surrounded by ratty and half-filled boxes that they had yet to unpack, in absolute privacy and intimacy.


End file.
